


Food is Love

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: thegameison_sh, Family, Female Character of Color, Female Characters, Food, Gen, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Food is love, baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Food is Love

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/profile)[**thegameison_sh**](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/) Challenge #2. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

 

For Sally Donovan, it was Irish soda bread. Well, really it was the smell of it baking, which always brought her back to the bustle and laughter and comfort of her Gran’s house. Gran had married an Irishman, and had learned to make it to “give him a taste of home.” She didn’t think her granddad even liked it, but he always beamed at Gran and thanked her when she brought it to the table for him. Sally wasn’t partial to the taste of it either, but she’d always accepted a warm slice with butter, picking the sticky raisins out of it while Gran told her stories of her mum growing up.

Last night she’d baked a couple of loaves just to fill her flat with the heady smell, and to remember. She wouldn’t eat them herself, so she’d brought them to the Yard, covertly ditching them in the break room when nobody was about. When anyone asked about them she feigned ignorance – it wouldn’t do to have the blokes think of her as all domestic. She’d already fought (and won) the battle not to be the go-to-girl for fetching coffee and lunches, or for bringing the sweets for birthdays and retirements.

In spite of that, she did occasionally bring coffee to D.I. Lestrade, unasked for, when he was looking particularly fagged out. Like tonight. Sally hummed a wordless tune as she slathered a pat of butter over a microwave-warmed slice of the bread, and poured a cup of black coffee. When she set them down on Lestrade’s desk, he muttered his thanks without looking up from his paperwork. But she didn’t grudge him that – he didn’t have anyone else to mind him, after all.

***

For John, it was tea and HobNobs. He’d been lucky enough to have access to a NAAFI shop during most of his deployment in Afghanistan, so he’d maintained a steady supply even in the dessert. Since moving in with Sherlock, he always bought a package when he did the shopping, even when they weren’t quite out yet. HobNobs in the cupboard remained a cheerful, blue, canister-shaped anchor that had helped him weather the chaos of the battlefield and, now, the chaos of Sherlock Holmes.

“Tea?” John asked, spilling a few of the chocolate biscuits onto a plate and then reaching for a mug. A brief “Mm” was all he got in response.

He glanced over at the desk where Sherlock sat, deceptively still. But John could practically feel the roiling churn of the man’s thoughts, a never-ending maelstrom of data collection, observation, deduction, induction, and hypothesis evaluation. If anyone could use a solid mooring, it was Sherlock. John tossed a couple more HobNobs onto the plate, then balanced it on the top of his mug and made his way into the living room.

***

For Mycroft, it was _foie gras frais poele_ with a glass of Pinot Gris to start, followed by _boeuf bourguignon_ paired with a Syrah from the Rhone Valley, and finished with a _clafoutis aux poires et son coulis_ and a twenty year old Colheita Tawny Port. It was the same meal every year, though he did vary his wine selections to take advantage of the best vintages the bistro’s sommelier had to offer.

Mother Holmes had been quite the _gastronomique_ , with an exquisitely refined palate and the ability to savor every meal through all five senses, though always she did so in moderation. She had been the picture of self-discipline – a trait Sherlock had certainly inherited and taken to extremes. He, on the other hand, had been gifted with the unfortunate combination of his mother’s love of rich French cuisine and his father’s propensity for indolence, at least, of the physical variety. It was hardly surprising, then, that he had turned to the solace of butter and _confit_ and _profiteroles_ to fill the aching hunger that had beset him in the immediate wake of her loss. Equally predictable were the waist-expanding consequences he had suffered, about which his darling brother was so fond of reminding him.

Now, however, he limited his indulgence to this annual ritual. It seemed a more fitting tribute to the day than flowers and a long drive to a country churchyard. He raised his glass to the empty chair across from him.

“To you, Mummy. Happy Birthday.”


End file.
